


Glass House

by Weaponized



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Begging, Blasphemy, Choking, Dom Steve Rogers, Established Relationship, Hedonism, Light Dom/sub, M/M, NSFW Art, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Shrunkyclunks, Steve being the dirtiest dirty talker to every dirty talk, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Vampires, Waterboarding, but with champagne, champagneboarding, gentle and loving objectification, like seriously Steven G Rogers spits on the house of God
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27368524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weaponized/pseuds/Weaponized
Summary: Bucky was always extremely good at getting what he wanted. He won hearts, bets, card games, and took shots, risks and leaps successfully or not at all. No hesitation.The only, single exception to this rule is Steve.Steve makes him beg.ORBucky didn't become the Winter Soldier, he became a vampire in 1945 instead. And Hallowe'en in the Captain America-Barnes household is a little bit wild.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 67
Kudos: 236





	Glass House

**Author's Note:**

> The Hallowe'en fic is finally here. Late but it's still 12K of porn, just eat it.
> 
> This fic is illustrated with amazing art by [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)  
> She created these beautiful images, I merely wrote words to go with them, really.

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The pumpkins glowered brightly in a row down the street—every doorstep dutifully adorned. Dusk leeched the light from the sky and magnifyied their ferocious scowls. A few odd or mismatched expressions peeked out, inexpertly cut by smaller hands. Gaggles of children were working the doorbells, clutching plastic buckets and calling for more sweets and threatening anyone who would listen with tricks.

Steve stood in his doorway, watching. He loved to look at the little costumes and see the children enjoying their borrowed monster-hood for the night, or their brand new super-status—whatever their pick. A little girl was flouncing by with a very impressive tail behind her, dancing along the pavement, her tiny cat-ears firmly pinned on by someone, probably her mother, who was watching from a doorway on the other side of the street with some consternation. Steve raised his hand in salute to her and received a hasty acknowledgement before the woman gave in to concern and shuffled energetically after her little girl.

The trees lining the street were ablaze with autumn colours, still visible even in the hazy street lamps. Soon the ground would be thick with wet leaves that would frost over and cause a dreadful hazard for Mrs. Beecham at number 15 on her unsteady old-lady feet and her useless, knobbly cane. Steve would go and make sure her path remained clear every morning.

Suddenly the trees were lit by a more substantial glow and the sound of a purring engine interrupted the childish shrieks. A sleek, old motor slid into view, painted black, a lot of chrome circling the low, rounded body. The rag-top was down, despite the chilly air, and in the driver’s seat sat the very trickster Steve had been waiting for. The only person audacious enough to drive a priceless relic of a car through the streets of Brooklyn on the one night of the year it was almost guaranteed to get in the way of some overly enthusiastic child’s play-weapon or insufficiently-dried face paint. Still, Steve didn’t think the coming of the Devil himself would stop Bucky Barnes from driving his Jaguar E-Type to the very gates of hell the day that journey became inevitable.

The car purred to a stop directly outside Steve’s front gate, messily, but connivingly, positioned halfway across the sidewalk. Bucky slammed the door and did something complicated with the lock. Presumably something that would discourage anything or anyone from touching the car that was left with it’s roof still open. Then he made his way up the path. The gate swung closed behind him and the latch fell with a soft clang. Steve smirked. They would not be handing out any more candy tonight, then. Costumed children were being strongly discouraged.

“Hello, stranger,” he greeted when his visitor paused at the foot of the steps.

Bucky began to work the snug leather of his gloves off his fingers, one at a time. “Happy Hallowe’en,” voice soft and seductive, working it’s merry, warm spell over Steve just like it always did.

“Welcome home,” he stood back and waved Bucky inside.

The gloves were dropped on the hall table and before he could even blink, his arms were full and Bucky was kissing him, pushing him back against the door—had it closed itself?—and humming happily.

“I missed you, Stevie,” he mumbled, lips cool but plush, hands tucking themselves into all the dips and curves of Steve’s body that had gone untouched while they were apart.

He laughed into the lingering kiss, pulling back a little, “Bet you say that to all the boys, Buck. And all the girls.”

Bucky merely levelled him with a scolding glance and then began shedding his long, luxurious felt coat, kicking off his little leather boots and dropping the Jaguar’s keys on top of his gloves, his wallet in the drawer next to Steve’s. He had been gone for two weeks, handling affairs of the supernatural. Affairs that Steve was forbidden to ask about or even muse about, upon pain of a very short, sharp clawing from one of Bucky’s knife-like nails. He didn’t mind though, Bucky had been carrying out his secret life immortally and quietly for a very long time, and Steve was simply glad to be able to have him the rest of the time.

“You forgot that I say it to all the werewolves and witches and ghosties, too,” Bucky grinned, once he had got himself down to his oh-so-modern vampire uniform of skinny jeans, sinfully tight, and a fine-knit burgundy sweater that clung to every inch of him. At his throat, gold glinted, and on his wrist, a matching gold watch completed his obnoxiously rich entrance upon Steve’s simple, suburban existence.

Not that he would dare mention it, at risk of Bucky pointing out precisely how much his sprawling Brooklyn Heights church conversion had cost. That was the way it went every tiny they had that conversation. Bucky was still sore that the one part of the conversion that had not survived was the belfry. He was just desperate to sleep in one, he said, and Steve had denied him by buying the only damn church that didn’t have one.

He followed his whining, complaining, bloodsucking partner to the vaulted front room, where he was already flicking through records in the velvet box on the countertop.

“What about all the other vampires?” Steve asked, once again leaning in the doorway to watch.

Selecting an LP and holding it up to the light to inspect it, Bucky smiled, “Are you jealous, Rogers? Of little me?”

“Not of you, no.” Steve settled in, despite knowing that in mere moments Bucky would be pawing at him, begging him to dance.

It still seemed like a miracle, this life. Steve had lost the one man who meant everything to him in 1945. He had let Bucky fall and not gone after him, something that turned out to be the greatest betrayal he’d ever make. And he had deserved his punishment; the awful, crushing disappointment of waking up in a different century, still alone. Still separated from the only thing he actually cared about.

Or so he had thought.

“Rogers,” Bucky’s fingers plucked at his sleeve, his eyes glittering in the lamplight, “dance with me.”

There was something soft and familiar spinning under the needle of the record player, and Steve couldn’t help but smile at the barely concealed look of hunger being directed at him. “Sure, _cara mia_ ,” he lowered his voice to something more intimate, “can’t leave my vampire boy cold on Hallowe’en night, can I?”

Bucky almost dropped his hand, but resisted, narrowing his eyes instead, “Upon the hallowed turf of your personal church, no less.”

“My church is built on the worship of James Buchanan Barnes, unholy, ungodly, bloody-minded and,” he slipped his arms around Bucky’s waist, “completely gorgeous.”

Bucky pretended not to be pleased, but his hands were slowly closing tighter on the back of Steve’s shoulders and he was subtly plastering himself to Steve’s chest. “Funny man,” he said into Steve’s ear, “I expect you to read me the scriptures later.”

Steve let himself be pulled into the centre of the room. This particular part of the house was dominated by a large, deep-red rug that was so thick and plush, they used it more to fuck on than they did anything else, but it worked quite well for dancing, too, the muffled trumpets of Bucky’s Harry James pick a familiar, comfortable accompaniment to their reunion.

Bucky was always extremely good at getting what he wanted. He won hearts, bets, card games, and took shots, risks and leaps successfully or not at all. No hesitation. The only, single exception to this rule was Steve. When Bucky tried to win Steve’s heart the first time, he claimed that Steve froze him out so cold that he had been shivering for a month. When he tried to persuade Steve to let him fight in the war alone, he had been so completely unsuccessful, Steve had ended up with his own troop of commandos within a year. And most fateful of all, when he tried to save Steve that day on a train above the Alps, he had died.

Steve looked down at the face that hadn’t changed since that day. The unhealthy, pinched look that war had wrought on it was settled now, less gaunt and more elegant. The bruised colour under his owlish eyes was a glamour he wore with not a little pride, knowing how alluring it made him look. He had confidence in himself back in 1943, and now, he’d had a long time to settle in to always winning during the 70 years Steve had slept in the ice while Bucky had been reestablishing himself as undead.

He pressed both hands to the dip in Bucky’s back, feeling at the little ridges and bumps that marred what he knew was otherwise a smooth, flawless expanse. He wanted to get his hands on it, but that would be far too easy for the self-satisfied creature currently swaying against him.

“Stevie.”

Here it comes, Steve let the feeling steal over him.

“I’m so hungry.”

Big, grey eyes and a soft, lovely smile. Bucky was irresistible. To everyone except Steven G. Rogers.

“Aw, Buck,” he interrupted their nostalgic dancing, Bucky’s carefully set scene, to crouch down and wrap his arms around a pair of sleek thighs and pick Bucky up, “did you go two whole weeks with nothing, huh? Poor baby.”

Bucky only looked a little annoyed to have his nice, serene moment ruined, until Steve threw him on the sofa. Then he looked really annoyed. “Yes, poor baby!” he struggled to sit up, “two weeks is a long time and I wasn’t exactly napping the whole time, I barely slept.”

“Oh no, did the ookie spooky witches and minotaurs and ghoulies not let you take a nap!? So mean,” Steve pushed his back down with one finger.

Naturally, gloriously, Bucky switched to full outrage, “Oh sure, and Lucifer himself came around and I sucked his dick, and then we all sang and danced naked around a cauldron,” he bared his teeth, letting his fangs extend into razor-sharp points against his pale lips. “Suck it up, Rogers, or I will.”

The rich, buttery leather of the sofa was firm under Steve’s knees, so he had no trouble preventing his smaller captive from doing, well, anything. Bucky tried to sit up, Steve pushed him down. Bucky tried to roll away, Steve rolled him back. Bucky tried to lean forward and bite him, Steve caught him by the throat.

“Ah, ah. Bad boy,” he grinned, “we were having such a nice time, too.”

Bucky flopped back and stared up at him, eyes hard, but his fists loose. “I don’t know why I ever expected you to let me come home and eat a goddamn meal.”

“Buck, you had seventy years of easy living,” luckily he still had his hand wrapped around Bucky’s throat or he might have broken free at that comment and mauled Steve’s flesh from his very bones, “I know you want more than that.”

“I want you, Steve,” Bucky stuffed his anger away somehow, flipping a switch on his anger, and arched up, blinking and writhing in the way that he knew from much experience that Steve liked.

“Yeah, you do.” Steve dropped him and stood up, quickly putting enough space between them that Bucky wouldn’t be able to sneak up on him with his complete lack of breath and assassin-like ability to move silently. “But you’re just going to have to wait, _cara mia_.”

“I am not Morticia Addams, and I can only dream of you being my Gomez,” Bucky arranged himself artfully on the sofa, working at his watch, carefully loosening it and placing it by the lamp. His necklace, earrings (diamond, excessive) and belt, all following.

Bucky had loved reading the Addams Family strips in the newspaper back in the day. He had cackled over them and insisted on doing dramatic readings of them whenever he could. His French accent had been particularly atrocious. These days, his French was flawless. And so was his air of spooky malaise. When Steve found out that the Addams Family had not only survived as a cultural institution, but thrived, he had been delighted.

“It’s Hallowe’en,” he said fimly, “and you are my Morticia, Buck. My lovely, depressing, agonizing little wife.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Can it, Rogers.”

“A minute ago it was ‘Steve, I need you’. Back to ‘Rogers’ already?”

“I certainly never said ‘need’,” Bucky unwound himself from the sofa and peeled his sweater up and off in one long, calculated move.

His body was a perfect study in lean strength. Long planes of white flesh stretched over muscles designed for stamina. He was youthful, yet powerful. Steve let himself linger over it all, settling his gaze on the snuggly fitting waistband of black denim where it sat perfectly just under a pair of punchy hip bones.

Bucky posed, head cocked to the side, short curls falling in his eyes. “I’ll call you whatever you like if you let me at that nice fat artery in your neck for just one minute,” he bared his fangs again, licking over them with a startlingly pink tongue.

Usually, Bucky was much more subtle about his hunger, seducing Steve for hours before asking sweetly if he could bite. But two weeks was a long time, and he was looking peaky in the extreme, leeched of colour and more bruised than usual. Steve noticed that his wrist was a soft shade of purple where the heavy watch had sat. Vanity really was the Devil of James Buchanan Barnes.

On one hand, Steve wanted to overwhelm his hungry partner with love and affection. On the other, a few hours wouldn’t kill him and Steve’s fingers were itching in the way they did sometimes when he hadn’t had a battle to fight in too long. Affection and Bucky’s bloodthirst could wait.

“I think we should eat dinner properly, because I have actually cooked you food. And then, maybe, you can persuade me to let you sink your teeth into me, Buck.”

Bucky shrugged, still gazing piercingly at him—probably trying to gauge just how much, and precisely what kind of, persuasion Steve was talking about. Bucky was no fool. He knew Steve and he knew what Steve meant when he said _persuade me_.

He backed away as casually as possible towards the door. You did not turn your back on a hungry vampire, even if they were the kind, generous love of your life.

Bucky’s smile was full of teeth. He raised himself slowly from the sofa, following. “So. What do I gotta do? Want me to yell ‘trick or treat’ for you?” he asked.

“We’re gonna do this the old fashioned way, Buck, you remember,” Steve admonished. “Like how your ma used to make us sing songs and tell her those poems she liked. You’re going to be very, very good for me. And then I’ll give you your treat.”

“It doesn’t count as guising when I’m a genuine fucking vampire, Steve,” Bucky only rolled his eyes a little, though, reaching up to run his hands through his hair and show off a little, flashing his fangs and revelling in Steve’s unwavering attention.

They padded through to the kitchen with its vaulted ceiling that carried through to the dining area in what was once the belly of the church. Here, the lamps were all on the floor, lighting the stone walls and keeping the low, rich furnishings cosy, while the draughty heights were cloaked in darkness. Steve continued to keep Bucky in his line of sight, which seemed to amuse Bucky greatly as he watched Steve right back.

A great, gold candelabra was set in the centre of the dining table and Steve had laid two places, one at each end of the long, dark-wood surface, just to be dramatic. Bucky smirked as he took it all in, then picked up the matches to light the tall, white church tapers.

“Feel like I should be wearing a more impressive outfit,” Bucky leaned one hip on the table as he blew out the match, the newly-lit candles flickering their uncertain light over his face.

“No,” Steve paused where he was extracting two crystal wine glasses from the cabinet, flicking his gaze down naked flesh, “you’re dressed perfectly, Buck.”

Bucky preened quietly, and allowed Steve to direct him to place glasses and dishes on the table. Being a vampire, Bucky didn’t need to eat solid food, but he still had a working tongue and liked to taste as much as he always had. Steve had prepared their favourite things for dinner, long practiced dishes that were familiar. There was a rich chicken dish with an entire bottle of merlot in it and tiny triangles of fried bread alongside; smoked salmon served with salad and Russian crepes, which Bucky had shown Steve how to make years ago, accompanied by slices of lemon and wafers of red onion; and a panna cotta, speckled with vanilla, glowing palley in the lamp light. An ice bucket with not one, but two bottles of Perrier-Jouët Champagne was set on its own stand by the table.

Bucky happily separated himself off a little plate of each dish and carried them to his end of the table. The rest remained nearby Steve and his super-charged metabolism. Bucky would benefit in the end, anyway, when Steve’s blood tasted all the richer for having indulged in a luxurious meal.

“I like this,” Bucky commented as he slid into his seat, “we should eat like this all the time.”

Steve hummed, thinking it would never happen, because on the average day, Bucky slept through the daylight hours and then sat obnoxiously close to Steve to hint that he wanted to be given food, preferably straight from Steve’s plate.

“I’m just going to go and get something, Buck, you open your champagne.”

Bucky had been drinking champagne like it was his sole source of joy since 1937, when he had been stepping out with a society girl eight years his senior. She had bought bottles and bottles of Veuve Clicquot at The Paris Cafe, where she had held court all afternoon on weekdays and let Bucky drop in so she could dote on him in front of her friends while he layed charming kisses to her cheeks and palms. She had liked his air of barely concealed wildness and his unabashed Brooklyn drawl.

It hadn’t lasted, of course, none of Bucky’s girls ever did, and no doubt she and her Manhattan fortune eventually got married off to someone who was certainly never going to be Brooklyn Bucky. But eventually, albeit many years later, Brooklyn Bucky had achieved his dream of becoming that girl, with her money and her frivolity that he had so yearned for and coveted.

It had taken Steve a long time to fathom out that Bucky didn’t want the rich girls he threw reckless parries for, but rather wanted to be them. He had been so caught up in his own problems, and doing his best to make them everyone’s problems, that he had never thought much of his best friend’s proclivities as anything other than what guys like Bucky—handsome, charming guys—did.

The interior of the former church was divided into multiple levels of different sizes with platforms and walls at various points. Each staircase was carefully matched to the ones originally built into the church interior. The open nature of the space meant that Bucky could see Steve as he climbed the stairs to the loftiest area high in the vaulted ceiling where their bedroom was. There wasn’t much up there, other than their bed and things they used in their bed, so Bucky probably had a good idea of what sort of thing Steve would bring back down with him.

He didn’t bother hiding what he was holding when he made his way back down, and instead watched as Bucky popped the cork on one of the bottles of bubbly stuff and poured it into their glasses.

The collar he had chosen was one they used often, Steve’s preferred choice, made from red leather and installed with sturdy D-rings at the front and back. The buckle was well worn and the sueded inside of the collar had rubbed to a shine where it had rested against Bucky’s neck. A credit to it’s long life, as Bucky didn’t wear a collar as an accessory or as a sign of his submission. He wore it to get tied up and fucked.

“You gonna tie me up later?” Bucky slid Steve’s champagne glass across the surface of the table toward him.

Steve ignored it and instead rounded Bucky’s seat to stand behind him and push one hand into his hair, resting the open collar against his shoulder. “I am. Later. But I’d like you to put it on now.”

Bucky turned his head, but kept his lethal teeth away from Steve’s wrist, “Alright. Put it on.”

It took only a moment to fasten the buckle in place and check the give in the leather. It looked good where it lay against the white skin of Bucky’s neck. Steve enjoyed it for a moment, pushing Bucky’s head forward so he was forced to stare into his lap while Steve looked at the red leather by the candle light.

Then he let go, detouring to pick up his wine and sit down at his place, pulling the dish of chicken towards himself and picking up his fork.

Bucky very slowly raised his head again and gazed at Steve from opaque eyes. He sipped and picked at his food, but mostly he stared hungrily at the opposite end of the table. Where his real meal waited.

Steve was used to it, though, and instead of finding it unsettling, he very much enjoyed the crackling atmosphere that began to build in the room.

“Shall I talk while you eat?” Bucky asked, making it very clear that he was going to talk regardless, and that it was not a question. He sipped at his glass of champagne, lounging comfortably across the breadth of his chair—a charmingly adapted piece of one of the pews that once sat in rows all throughout the space. “So, I thought about coming home tomorrow, because, y’know, it’s not a short drive and I had to do it in the daylight.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, shifting his grip on his knife as he ate and listened, trying not to stare too much at the spectacle Bucky was making at the opposite end of the room, casually nibbling a triangle of bread.

“But, you know, I did tell you I was going to come home today, and I didn’t want to break my promise,” a steady sip of champagne gave Bucky a pause to check how his words were being received. “I know how much you _hate_ broken promises.”

Steve raised his eyebrows and popped a bite of salmon and sour cream into his mouth.

“But when I was driving back today, in the midst of all that daytime traffic—I don’t know how people stand it—I was wondering what you’d do if I did just take a damn nap and get back tomorrow.”

Oh, he was going to read his own scriptures, Steve realised with a private smile to himself, eyes back on his plate, Bucky’s gently seductive voice the only sound besides his cutlery and the pop of the record player’s needle disengaging as the Harry James LP ended back in the other room.

“Maybe you’d have stormed right out of the house in the dawn light and just thrown me on the ground right there, I thought. You wouldn’t yell though, you hate yelling, you let your words run away with you and start to hate the sound of your own voice. And then it turns into a speech about doing the right thing.”

Bucky paused dramatically and Steve’s eyes were drawn up entirely against his will until he was watching the dancing candle-light on cold, grey eyes.

Bucky took an unnecessary and performative breath before he spoke again, “And you hate doing the _right thing_ to me, don’t you. You only want to do the bad things to me, isn’t that right, Stevie?”

Steve licked his lips and tipped his head to the side, not quite a shrug, but not far off.

“You love it when I behave badly because then you get to put those big hands you got all over me. And you get to hurt me. I wondered about how you’d do that.”

Setting his fork down for a moment, Steve leaned back. “Mm hm,” was all the encouragement he added. Just to let Bucky know he was very much engaged.

“Mm,” Bucky agreed, a look of utterly sublime innocence on his face. “What if I’d just left you here alone tonight, Hallowe’en night, the little kids all running by and begging for candy. Pumpkins and spooky, little, cute ghoulies. But your personal spooky nightmare doesn’t even show up? You’d be so disappointed.” Bucky finished off his glass of wine and reached for the bottle, “Maybe you’d even murder me again.”

Steve snorted with subdued laughter and went back to eating his dinner.

“Hey, you’ve certainly tried before,” Bucky smiled at the bubbles in his glass. “The time you strangled me for twenty minutes? That was excessive.”

That had happened, and Steve made an acknowledging gesture with his fork. It had been one of the hottest nights he had in his long memory and he wasn’t interested in denying it. Vampires could not be strangled, but choking Bucky still had extremely satisfying outcomes, including preventing him from speaking.

“You want more?” Bucky raised the decorated bottle, painted flowers winking in the flickering light of the candles.

“Yes,” Steve placed his glass down. Bucky being close enough to touch while he stood to pour merrily foaming liquid into Steve’s glass was a test, which Steve passed with flying colours. Because he was no amateur in the school of resisting Bucky Barnes.

Once Bucky had returned to his seat, apparently attempting to emulate a dramatic Pre-Raphaelite painting with his expression of rapture, he picked up his glass again and opened his mouth, “Anyway, as I drove, I was thinking about what you’d do to me. Maybe you’d tie me up, on the bed though, because you’re nice like that. And because you’re just so _calculating_ you’d probably fuck my thighs or something instead of my ass.” He took a sip, “So cruel.”

Steve mulled the image over in his mind for a moment. It would be nice to tie Bucky’s thighs together and fuck them. He hadn’t done that in a long while, but that was because Bucky could get through that kind of treatment far too silently for his personal tastes. Steve preferred making him scream.

Bucky hummed as he gauged Steve’s reaction. “Or maybe you’d gag me and tie my hands up somewhere. And make me watch you.” He gestured vaguely to the entirety of Steve’s body, “Make me watch all that do sinful things on the altar. Maybe you’ll make me clean up your come after with my mouth.”

The house did have an altar, and Steve had left it mostly alone, with the celebrant’s chair beneath a stained-glass window that reached from floor to ceiling. There was even a small but breathtakingly intricate rose window framed by defunct organ pipes on either side. It was right behind where Bucky sat at the table, a sort of sitting area, but mostly a place for Steve to keep his transient collection of art. 

“Shame we don’t have a cross.” Bucky said softly. He had absolutely caught Steve looking this time, and the timbre of his voice was predatory. “You could crucify me.”

It truly took some effort to keep the expression on his face neutral at that, and Steve raised his hand to his mouth, pretending to smooth down his beard to hide his smile. Bucky was riding a wild fantasy train tonight.

“Oh you really like that idea,” Bucky leaned forward and fixed him with a look through the legs of the candelabra, “I know you like sinning in church, but I might have to draw the line at religious roleplay, Steven.”

Steve laughed, “You don’t know how to draw a line, my darling.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Bucky tugged at the D-ring on his collar, dropping his tone to a whisper “I much prefer it when you draw them.”

He was mostly finished with his dinner, and Bucky was merely playing with what remained of his plate of desert, so Steve lined up his knife and fork. He picked up his glass and mirrored his still-hungry companion as best he could without the innate elegance that being a vampire seemed to necessitate, “I think your road trip clearly gave you plenty of time to fantasize, didn’t it.”

Bucky bit his lip, no doubt itching to tell Steve that it had been a work trip featuring no fun and a distinct lack of rest or sustenance. Woe is Bucky. “I didn’t even get to the part where I scream your name while you pull my hair and ask me who my one true God is yet.”

They sipped in silence for a while, Steve smiling away his mirth and Bucky smug. Still, Steve was no closer to letting Bucky bite him in the neck, his dinner-time dirty talk had only reinforced Steve’s desire to play with him before letting him eat. Draining the sweet, dry remnants of his glass, he got up.

He advanced slowly along the table, collecting the half-full bottle as he went. Bucky was eyeing him with carefully subdued excitement, knowing that something infinitely satisfying awaited him somewhere in the near future, but not what the path to get there would be. Steve perched on the edge of the table by Bucky’s hip, reaching out to cup a sharp jaw in his palm and push his thumb against soft, pale lips.

“I do like hearing about your little fantasies,” he said, pushing his thumb inside and feeling Bucky open his mouth willingly. Fangs remained carefully tucked away when he gently pulled his fingers back out again, leaning down to press their lips together. Bucky kept his hands on the arms of his chair, tipping his head back to open himself up to the kiss without pushing or trying to rush anything. Perhaps he was trying to make Steve forget how needy he had been earlier.

There was an inviting whimper when Steve pulled back and Bucky blinked his eyes open, a picture of sweet haziness. Sliding his wet, sloppy fingers back into the soft inside of Bucky’s mouth, he pressed at his teeth, widening his fingers until Bucky was forced to open his mouth wide. It was warmer than his skin in there, but only a little. Bucky’s tongue licked at his fingers, showing off.

Lifting the bottle of champagne in his other hand, Steve weighed how much was left. Plenty for what he had in mind. He tipped Bucky’s head back and pushed his mouth open even wider, thumb pinching at his lower lip, then he began to tip the sparkling liquid inside, slowly.

It wasn’t easy to swallow when your head was tipped back, and it was even more tricky when the liquid in question was bubbling, foaming and ice cold. For the first few seconds, Bucky tried valiantly to drink, his throat working and tongue contracting into the back of his mouth. But when he couldn’t swallow anymore, he tried to close his mouth, biting down on Steve’s hand. So Steve pinched his lip, hard, and pushed his jaw open even wider.

Soon, the speed he could swallow at was hopelessly outstripped and champagne filled his mouth, little joyful droplets splashing his face and catching in his eyelashes. Bucky gurgled, then choked, body convulsing, splashing more foam and liquid onto his own face. His hands, however, remained clutched tight to the arms of his chair.

Streams of champagne were dripping to the wood floor in soft splashes accompanied by Bucky’s gentle choking, gulping sounds. Steve leaned down to lick some of the delicious rivulets up and kissed a sharp nose, “Good boy,” he mumbled, watching as the sensation wracked Bucky’s body with shivers. “So good. You love champagne so much, don’t you Buck. And I just love feeding it to you.”

Bucky managed to look pleased even while Steve’s large hand was mostly shoved in his mouth and a quarter of a bottle of champagne was dripping all over his face, neck and filling his gaping mouth. When the bottle was empty, Steve put it down on the table, removing his hand from Bucky’s mouth so he could lean in and chase away the last few mouthfuls of liquid with his tongue. He put his hand against Bucky’s long, pale throat, feeling the way it strained and convulsed.

Bucky turned his head to break the kiss, gasping, heaving a breath that he didn’t need only so he could cough. Steve kissed his ear and neck instead, quietly enjoying the wrecked sound when Bucky croaked, “God, warn a guy.”

“Come on,” Steve didn’t give him any time to get comfortable again and instead leaned in to heave Bucky out of his seat and over his shoulder. There was protesting and wriggling, but even with his supposedly superior vampire strength, Bucky had remained no match for Steve in the 21st century. “You were so eager for me to throw you on the ground and ravish you earlier, why are you mad now?”

“I’m not mad,” Bucky mumbled into his back, “I’m just—ow!” Steve smacked him hard on the ass to interrupt what would no doubt be a very charming and manipulative attempt to get whatever Bucky wanted.

“You told me you wanted to be tied up and watch me jerk off,” Steve lowered his armful of long limbs and charmingly champagne soaked skin onto the carpeted area that was once the altar, “I’m just giving you what you want.”

“When did I say I wanted that!?” Bucky squirmed on the floor until he was on his back. He was quickly recovering from his pseudo-drowning, licking at the mess left on his face and shaking out his damp curls.

Steve knelt down, pressing one knee into the flesh of one thigh and reaching over to the long, low chest that served as a table to the squashy old armchairs. Inside, there were knick knacks and books and phone chargers, but there were also a few of Bucky’s all-time favourites, including a long, well-used length of red, silk rope. And lube. Steve unknotted the neat coil with a flourish and let the ends flip down and dangle right in Bucky’s face. “You said you fantasized about it when you fantasized about being in trouble and you know what you are now?”

Bucky levelled an unimpressed gaze at him, knowing exactly what was coming, “What am I?”

Steve gently whipped his cheek with a coil of rope, barely hard enough to graze, “You’re in trouble.”

Bucky was too late trying to get his wrists out of the way of Steve’s grasping fingers, but he responded to the crushing kiss that Steve pressed into his lips with delight, arching up from the carpet, trying to get his legs free to wrap them around and urge things on.

“Stop it, Buck,” Steve slapped at one thigh, “I’m going to tie you up. And then jerk off on you. You literally asked for it.”

Bucky groaned, “Fuck that, Steve. _Steve_ ,” he bit at Steve’s lip, raising himself as high as he could without the use of his arms.

It hurt, of course, to have his lip bitten almost through, even though Bucky hadn’t used his fangs. Steve felt blood on his chin and tasted it in his mouth once he freed himself, grinning down at where a little of his blood had painted Bucky’s mouth red. Tasting blood when he was this hungry? Bucky was going to go completely wild for it.

Grey eyes were consumed by black, the whites and iris obliterated, and Bucky moaned long and low as his fangs lengthened again, tiny razor-sharp pricks that sat snug against his lower lip, painted crimson with Steve’s blood. Bucky licked it off, slurping obscenely.

“You taste so good, Stevie,” he whispered, and Steve was lost in his obsidian gaze for a moment, clutching at Bucky’s wrists where he was flexing his grip, trying desperately to get loose, to pounce, to bite. “Please, please,” Bucky put on a little begging show, gasping and arching to try and make it look like the persistent yanking on his wrists was not to get free from Steve’s grip, but just part of his surrender.

But Steve had seen all the little tricks in Bucky’s book, and he wasn’t about to let go. “No game, Buck. Your fault you went off too early, now I’ll just have to gag you until I’m done,” He smirked down and gloried in the look of desire and disgust that warred on Bucky’s face. His hunger clashing, once again, with his desire to be dominated and controlled.

Steve began to wrap the silky lengths of rope around strong wrists, tucking Bucky’s clever hands together in the small of his back. Steve wasn’t the world’s best knotsmith, and his knowledge of restraints was based entirely on restraining enemies and restraining Bucky, but over time he had developed an aesthetic of his own when it came to tying for pleasure. Bucky did not have the delicacy of a living human, where it was dangerous for him to be awkwardly tied in the wrong positions for too long. Although he would lose sensation in his limbs if tied tightly, it would simply return when he sucked some of Steve’s blood later.

Once several loops and knots of red rope were cuffing wrists and forearms, Steve began wrapping it around the width of Bucky’s chest, gradually pulling him into a rigid posture, twisting the silk into a cross and pulling it tight.

Once the knots were tied off the rope he got back to his feet, taking the trailing length that was left and walking backwards, letting it feed through his fingers. Bucky watched him, legs spread and awkwardly resting on his own arms.

“Which gag do you want?” Steve asked conversationally, flipping open the chest again to rummage.

“No gag, let me bite you.”

“Buck. Later. Be good.”

“I’m not good, I’m bad, bad, bad.”

“Yeah,” Steve couldn’t find any gags, so he flipped the chest shut again, “You are. Well there’s no gags in there so I’m just going to gag you with rope, I guess.”

Bucky tried really quite hard this time to avoid him, grunting and snapping as Steve pinned him to the floor, trying to slither out of his grasp despite being unable, with his arms bound up in constricting knots. Steve grabbed at the twisting cross on his sternum and shook him, hard, until he stopped moving.

It made Steve laugh when Bucky snarled at him. He was smiling cheerfully as he dictated, “I’m going to hang you from the ceiling, my little demon boy,” and then he leaned down to kiss at bloodstained lips one last time—very dangerous with the proximity of those sharp, white fangs—before replacing his mouth with a loop of rope.

Bucky opened his mouth and bit down on the rope, making an adorably disgruntled face as Steve wound it around a couple of times, carefully keeping it from snagging on any of Bucky’s hair or his ears. Once his mouth was full of enough rope that there was no chance of biting or speaking, Steve tied off the rope again, inspecting how much he had left. Enough to tie Bucky to the ceiling and probably enough to ensure he wouldn’t be able to move any of his limbs at all, if Steve played his cards right.

To the left of the altar, a spiral staircase led to the loft areas above. It also led to a handy niche in the vaulted ceiling, where there had once been an enormous hanging lamp on a pulley that hung low over the sanctuary. The lamp was long gone, but Steve had kept the stone-bound pulley system, and it would be extremely useful now in putting Bucky where Steve really wanted him, right at the front and centre of his personal church.

He felt the burning gaze following as the bound and frustrated vampire watched him climb. Bucky was technically still free to move, his legs were free, but he seemed more interested in waiting to see what Steve would do, following the rising loop of rope that trailed up to the gloomy darkness of the vaulted ceiling.

It didn’t take long to draw the end of the red cords through the pulley. When there was no slack left on the ropes, Steve made his way back down the stairs, pulling the length as he went, taking on the weight and lifting Bucky off the floor with a jerk.

Bucky didn’t make a sound when his body was wrenched into the air with no warning, though he did flex his shoulders as if preparing for the oncoming stiffness. He braced his feet on the carpet but didn’t bother to try and stand or pull against the inevitable force of Steve’s super-human muscles.

Long legs trailing to the floor, Bucky’s body was framed by the winking stained glass at his back in a charming edifice of surrender. He looked tragic and angelic, to Steve’s eyes. “You should have a halo, Buck,” he said as he knotted off the great loop holding all of Bucky’s weight. Bucky merely drew in a struggling breath against the rope muffling his mouth and letting it out in a slow, wet sigh.

Free to move with no risk of vampire interference now, Steve stroked at Bucky’s smooth arms and stomach, rubbing his fingers over nipples and touching all of him that had been displayed so wantonly since dinner began. Bucky hummed and tipped his head back, closing his eyes when Steve’s wandering hands reached his crotch, rubbing at the fabric and finding the obvious outline of his dick where it was tucked tightly against his hip. Bucky’s taste in jeans was as obscene as his mouth.

The button of the soft, black denim popped open easily, and Steve tugged the zipper down slowly, revealing that Bucky had foregone underwear, like the modern-day slut he pretended to be. Steve tutted softly and peeled back the cuff of the denim to pull Bucky’s half-hard cock free. He probably wouldn’t be able to get much harder than this, judging by the pale colour of his flesh and the way he was beginning to shiver at the sensation of being touched. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be made to come, but it did mean that it would take a while, and that he would be in a pretty sorry state afterwards.

He stroked the velvety soft flesh of Bucky’s cock with just his fingertips, tracing down to his balls, which he rolled in his palm slowly, stroking the tender, cool flesh. Bucky had done a lot of waxing in the 90s and his body hair was not what it had been when they were young—otherwise, the lithe, strong nature of his body was entirely unchanged from how Steve remembered it from the war. Bucky had lived a long time without him, and that time had wrought changes. The inhuman lack of warmth in the flesh under his hands didn’t bother Steve anymore, though, and now he couldn’t imagine touching anyone else like this, pressing the insatiable heat of his own body into Bucky’s flesh to warm and smother him. 

With one hand, he continued to touch and stroke and tug at Bucky’s cock, staying gentle, and with the other, he pulled away the last items of clothing from his bound, gagged trophy. Bucky’s toes curled as Steve ran his fingers over the arch of one foot, catching hold to push it up against the thigh and, making a triple loop from his remaining length of rope, pull it tight. Bucky watched him from his black eyes. When Steve moved to the other ankle, pulling it inexorably out from under him, he huffed, finally surrendering entirely to the grasp of the rope. Steve worked quickly, completing the tie, ankles and wrists bound tightly and Bucky’s entire body in a tight bow.

Once the final knot was complete, he removed all his touches and moved back to look.

* * *

* * *

A little drool was already escaping from Bucky’s mouth where his sharp teeth were pressed into the darkening red silk in his mouth. It slid from the corner of his mouth and down his chin. His blackened eyes were staring straight at Steve with hunger and frustration, a tiny furrow in his brow. His thighs were tight with tension and a visible shiver wracked him.

“You look amazing, Buck. Best thing I ever set eyes on. My lovely, dead boy.”

He stripped off his jeans and shirt, tossing them aside. He pulled his underwear off and sank to his knees, spreading his legs and wrapping a hand around his own cock, hard and flushed—completely unlike Bucky’s colourless body; hungry in every way, and restrained to the point of becoming an object. In comparison Steve was satisfied and warm and filled with energy. He groaned at the sensation of his own hand squeezing his cock, tipping his head back when he heard Bucky’s echoing moan of longing.

“Told you I’d worship you properly,” he raised his eyes to the sparkling facets of the stained-glass window behind the bound effigy he had created, flexing his abs as he slowly rubbed his thumb into the head of his cock. Bucky was trying to move, straining against the bindings as he was forced to watch Steve take his pleasure freely.

“Fuck, Bucky,” Steve bit his lip theatrically and continued to stroke languidly, “I could jack off to you like this all day. Here at the head of my church. My beautiful baby. So hungry, but you don’t need anything, do you? Such a good boy.”

Bucky yelled through the silk in his mouth, shaking, every muscle in his body fighting against the cradling ropes. 

“You’re trying to talk, but what could you possibly have to say, Buck? My little baby doesn’t need to talk,” he was getting breathless, enjoying the way the ropes bit deep into white skin where Bucky fought at them, stroking himself faster and faster, shifting his grip and bringing his other hand up to his mouth, putting on as much of a show as he knew how by licking his fingers, soaking them in spit and adding it to his fist where it slid back and forth, back and forth.

When he came, it was with a deep, growling moan that he only enhanced a little bit for performance. The vaulted ceiling did most of the work, echoing his voice back a hundred times over. His come splattered the carpet and his thighs where he knelt to the altar of Bucky.

The candlelight gilded every plane of flesh, bordered in red, and glittered on the stained glass, winking and warm. Bucky whined in frustration.

Pulling himself together, Steve didn’t bother to wipe himself clean as he crawled across the carpet to put himself between Bucky’s spread, bound thighs, leaning in to sink his teeth into the soft flesh there. “Mm, that felt amazing,” he laid kisses to thighs and hip, skirting Bucky’s cock where it jutted out, half-inflated, to rise slowly up his body.

Steve’s own cock was still mostly hard. The serum worked on him however it saw fit, but usually, when Bucky was involved, that meant multiple rounds of unflagging enthusiasm for sex. Rising to his feet, he was perfectly positioned to lean in and kiss at the tightly stretched flesh above the leather collar.

“I want to hear you, Buck,” his body felt overwhelmingly large against the tightly wrapped tension of Bucky’s. Steve was towering over him. “I want to hear you beg,” he whispered against a cool forehead, grasping at the ropes in Bucky’s mouth and tugging them down his chin one at a time. They were sodden and frayed where sharp teeth had worried at the silk.

The moment his mouth was free, Bucky tried to bite him, but Steve recognised the movement and easily slammed his head back. “I don’t think so Buck,” he teased, wrapping his other hand around their cocks, his own hot and hard, Bucky’s cool, softer, but jerking in Steve’s grip.

“Steve,” Bucky fought against the restriction of the palm tight on his throat, “Fuck, fuck, _please_ , Steve.”

“Please what, Buck?”

“Let me–”

“No, I want you to ask me not to come. You don’t want to come.” Steve said it as firmly as he could despite the pleased smile on his face.

Bucky was capable of coming pretty much on command if he could do it while his teeth were fastened to a source of warm, living blood. But Steve was more interested in playing with his emotions, currently, squeezing his hand around their cocks, swiping at the residual drips of come from his first orgasm to ease the way.

Bucky gurgled at him, “F-Fuck! Okay,” he fought for the breath to talk, “Please, fucking _please_ , Steve, don’t let me come yet. Don’t you dare jerk me off until I come.” He even managed to make it sound convincing.

“Why not?” Steve grinned down at where his hand was pumping up and down slowly, squeezing and twisting around the head of Bucky’s cock, pausing there to rub his palm torturously over the head.

“Because,” Bucky tried his best to writhe against the grip of both Steve and the rope holding him as he tried to think of a good reason, “Because… you’re gonna let me come when I bite you?” he rasped.

“Yeah,” Steve fucked his hips up, feeling the delicious, wet drag of flesh, his own hot and damp, Bucky’s cool and dry to the touch, except where Steve’s release had slicked it. He reached for the bottle of lube he had liberated from the box earlier, using a reckless grip on Bucky’s ankle to lean on as he snatched the bottle. Buck made the sort of sigh that only passed his lips when something hurt him very badly and he liked it very much.

Drizzling the lube, he fastened his fingers in a loop around Bucky’s cock and balls, taking them both in hand so he could jerk them off.

Bucky moaned. “Oh, fuck. Steve, Steve. Yes, _tighter_.”

“What do polite boys say?” Steve muttered over the sound of thigh on thigh.

“Please, Steve, you gotta—come—tighter, or I’ll come. Please!”

Divine, hissed from between fanged teeth, desperate. Steve came only a few moments later, his grip on Bucky’s cock and balls a vice, the flesh pink and raw. He kept pumping his fist through it, opening his hand to rub the mixture of come and lube all around, over the head and down the mostly-hard length. Bucky had to be feeling dizzy now, starving, and all his strength going straight to an orgasm he was begging not to have.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Bucky’s feet flexed in the bindings, his fingers tightening into fists, a sure sign that he was reaching a crest.

Steve stopped the quick jerks of his hand suddenly and held tight, halting whatever helpless ascent to climax had been about to happen.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky whispered it, quiet and tortured as he shuddered.

Steve slowly loosened his grip as he felt the tension ebb. Bucky wasn’t breathing at all, but Steve was panting heavily, the sound filling the space around them, their glowing bubble on the raised altar. Sprawling back on the carpet, he looked up at the effigy above him, slowly revolving in the ropes, cock jutting out obscenely, dripping in Steve’s come.

Bucky looked down at him from slitted, black eyes. “Steve,” he said, but he didn’t seem to know what to ask for, his mind finally diverted from the constant driving desire to _bite_ by Steve’s edging.

Steve rolled over onto his knees and slowly climbed to his feet. Behind him, there was a whining hum and Bucky said his name again softly. He paused and looked back over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, angel. I’ll be right back.”

Fetching his phone from the kitchen counter didn’t even take him from Bucky’s immediate field of vision, but by the time he returned to the pool of lamp light within the cavernous sanctuary he was whining and gasping as if Steve had abandoned him to hours of torture all alone. “Hurts,” he whispered plaintively.

“Yeah, it does,” Steve climbed the step again, coming close to push his hand through Bucky’s hair and over his face and neck, thumbing each inch of soft skin. “Hurts like loving you.”

Fangs were bared in a disastrous smile, soft and loving. “Are you going to fuck me yet?”

“Shh, my beautiful little hell beast,” Steve slid one thumb into his mouth, pushing down on the lip to bare the fangs without opening himself to the danger of teeth sinking into his hand. He flipped open the camera on his phone and took a picture. Bucky hated pictures of himself when his eyes and mouth betrayed him for what he was. Not that he didn’t like looking like it, but Bucky, and all supernatural creatures, hid what they were from the public. Steve had had to give up his phone to multiple security checks before Bucky declared it acceptable but ‘not encouraged’ for him to have pictures on. Funnily, he had never minded Steve taking pictures of his dick or ass before then.

Drool slid down Steve’s finger and into his palm. Bucky was starting to look messy, even bound up tight in the ropes that remained rigidly tight where Steve had knotted them. His hair was a shock of disordered curls and had tangled in the knots at the back of his head, and his hands were dead white, almost blue.

Steve pulled his thumb free and absently wiped his hand on Bucky’s cheek, standing back to take a picture of the whole scene. Bucky hissed in distaste, all traces of his charming smile gone.

“Please, Steve,” he tried, pressing his head back, baring his throat as much as he could, “please.” _Let me bite you, and let me come_.

“I like it when you beg,” taking a couple more pictures of the knots, Steve smiled and palmed his soft cock with one hand while he flipped through his new jerk-off-folder content with the other. “You look so good like this, though, I don’t wanna untie you.”

“Fuck, _Steve_!”

“Steve what?” he put his phone aside, moving to slowly walk around to Bucky’s back. “I can’t fuck you like this though, huh,” he gave the knots at Bucky’s wrists a little shake.

The sound that left Bucky’s throat was pained—partly desire and pleasure, but mostly frustration.

“Alright, you sinful thing. I’m gonna untie you and you aren’t going to put those teeth anywhere near me. Yet.” he slid one hand through disordered hair, feeling a nod. “You sublime creature. So good for me.” Praising Bucky was endlessly entertaining because he both hated it and revelled in it, as was clear from the way his jaw clenched, but his head pressed into Steve’s palm.

He began to regretfully undo the knots holding Bucky’s ankles. The ropes came loose easily, and Steve unwound gradually, peeling the bonds from their deep imprints into white, soft flesh. Bucky barely flinched, even when his legs dropped suddenly from their tight restraints. Steve lowered his feet, bending to kiss the arch of each before setting it on the soft carpet.

Bucky was messy, marked by ropes and looked like he might struggle with standing up. All his available energy, it seemed, was going to the sporadic little jerks of interest his dick was displaying every time Steve peeled a new loop of rope from his skin.

“You gonna fuck me on the floor?”

Steve fisted his hand in brown curls as he slowly loosened the tie that was holding Bucky’s weight, “Yup. Right here.”

“And I can bite you after?” 

“One track mind, huh Buck.” The knots loosened easier the moment the weight was on Steve’s hand.

“I-I’m not sure I’ll be much—until–” he slid to his knees as Steve cast the last few loops of rope away. “I’m so hungry,” he gasped, trying to keep from falling to the floor, but also keen to avoid putting all his weight on the hand in his hair. His fingers shook, clumsy and weak as he closed them around Steve’s fist, trying to loosen the vice-like grip.

Steve lowered him down onto the floor, loosening his fist and clasping stiff fingers in his. “Worn out already, are you?” He rubbed at the white, cold skin, surprised to look down and find that Bucky’s eyes had returned to their more familiar, liquid grey. He frowned, leaning down to press their joined hands to Bucky’s cheeks. “Hey, Buck,” he pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, “Look at those eyes. You really must be struggling, huh.”

Bucky blinked, smiling a little dopily, revealing that though his eyes had lost their magical state, his teeth were still very much ready. “Mm. Only you can save me now,” he whispered.

Steve groaned, delighted, burying his face in Bucky’s throat, sucking kisses there that would leave no marks, running his hands over the uninterrupted expanses of white skin that felt like heaven to his hands, smooth and unbearably perfect. Bucky could barely lift his own hands, never mind leap on him and bite his neck, so Steve was taking the opportunity to align their limbs and press down. “I missed you, devil baby,” he spoke directly into the soft skin of Bucky’s side, laying kisses in long trails down his stomach, “I missed you every second you were gone.”

Bucky managed a tiny laugh, blinking as if trying to clear his vision. Steve, collecting the bottle of lube on his way down, settled himself between long legs, hoisting one knee over his arm and kissing the pillowy flesh of one thigh, mumbling compliments and praises as he went. 

“Perfect. Terrible. Unbelievable. Murderous, gorgeous thing,” he bit into the luxurious flesh, feeling Bucky try to rise from the floor, but unable to. He couldn’t remember the last time Bucky had been this helpless. And it had only been two weeks. A thought suddenly struck him and he raised up in a great surge of movement, “You haven’t been hurt, have you?” he stared down into Bucky’s fogged eyes, “Did someone hurt you?” If Bucky had been injured, healing would have drained his energy much faster.

Bucky made a questioning noise, “No.”

Steve relaxed a little, dipping back down to lick at one nipple, “Just thought,” he kissed and nibbled, “you’re–”

“If you say ‘weak’ Steve, I swear to God,” Bucky mumbled from numb-looking lips.

Steve laughed, hoisting the leg in his grasp higher and beginning to coat his fingers in lube, “Baby boy, I’d _never_.”

Bucky arched and moaned when Steve pressed two fingers to his hole, rubbing at the tight muscle, pressing, “Fuck,” he took a deep breath which sounded loud against his usual silence, “Fuck me.”

Admiring the recklessly demanding tone Steve decided to drop asking about why Bucky was so drained until later, as he seemed determined to get fucked even while he was barely able to keep his eyes open. Sliding one index finger inside the tight, slick ring of muscle, Steve curled the fingers of his other hand around the stiff tip of Bucky’s cock.

Fucking Bucky had always been easy—even during the war he had somehow made himself available whenever and however he possibly could, determined to make up for all the years Steve had refused to acknowledge him or his ass. Since becoming a vampire, he had only got easier. He could go harder, recover faster and something about sucking blood was innately sexual, too. He hummed in pleasure when Steve’s finger eased slowly in and out, tilting his hips down to search out what he wanted. Steve let him, rubbing, open palmed, at his cock where it lay against the taught skin of his stomach. Soon, Steve was sliding three fingers in and out, wet and slick, transfixed on the sight of Bucky shivering beneath him, the remaining energy in his body once again going almost entirely to his cock.

“Steve,” Bucky was clenching his hands, staring down with his eyes, clouded, “Go. Come on.”

Steve leaned down to gratuitously lick at the bare, wet tip of the cock in his hand, “You ready for me?”

“So ready,” Bucky clenched his teeth.

“Ask me nicely,” Steve pushed knees aside further, placing his sticky, lube-covered hand on Bucky’s chest, pressing him down. “C’mon, Buck. Say please. You want this dick.” He punctuated his words with some short, sharp flicks of his wrist on Bucky’s cock.

Panting theatrically, Bucky whined, “Please, you fucking demon, fuck me. I–I’m begging you–” Steve rubbed the head of his cock against the wet, slick entrance, pulling out an anticipatory moan, “I need to taste you, Steve, so _fucking_ bad.”

Pushing inside was heaven, and Bucky was agreeing with enthusiasm, eyes closed, hands in his own hair, clutching, his fangs bared and legs shaking. He couldn’t scream and writhe and moan in delight like he would if he was full of blood; usually he would be flushed and clutching at every bit of Steve he could reach. But the subdued, desperate whine that was barely the volume of a whisper did something to Steve. He wanted to pull Bucky inside of himself, make them into one thing.

Gathering him up with one arm around his thigh and the small of his back, Steve almost lifted him from the floor with the first thrust of his hips. Bucky hiccupped and a tear slid from his lashes. Leaning down over him, Steve could hear his own breathing so unbearably loud in his own ears, gasping breaths that washed over the white, ethereal face beneath him.

“Who made you so perfect,” he growled, digging his fingers in, lifting hips up from the carpet, raised on his knees to slam forward, “want to eat you right up,” one hand found its way to Bucky’s throat and he pressed down.

Bucky’s eyes flew open again, wet, and Steve watched as they flooded with black again the moment Steve pressed his weight down, slamming in with sheer brute force.

Their fucking made everything else that had happened that evening seem gentle and insignificant in comparison. Steve forgot that he had already come twice, using his strength to manipulate the body under his into whatever position best allowed him to fuck up into it, grinning when Bucky’s mouth fell open and he scrambled at the hand on his throat. He _knew_ he was nailing all the right places because he had fucked this body in every position a hundred times. More. He _knew_ he was going to make Bucky come and that it would hurt him because he was too weak and his body was being overstimulated. They were spiralling downwards towards that inevitable conclusion with growing speed and he found himself biting at Bucky’s shoulder, teeth fastened to his collarbone, moaning in anticipation and pleasure and anticipation of pleasure.

Releasing his mouthful with a cursory lick, he suddenly threw his weight backwards, hauling Bucky up into his lap. He was like a rag doll, his back a bending in a sickening bow before collapsing over Steve’s shoulder. He felt the scratch of deadly-sharp teeth on his skin and quickly got a hold of a handful of hair, “Ah, ah,” he thrust his hips up, yanking Bucky’s head back by the hair, “You’re gonna bite me _after_ you start to come.”

Bucky gasped and moaned in pain, not theatrical any longer, just trying to cope—to make it through blindly, desperately, until he could get relief and release.

It was all Steve and his strength, bouncing Bucky’s whole body on his lap, thrusting up over and over. He scraped his teeth down a white neck, “Love fucking you, love fucking this body,” he talked with nothing to say, just desperate to move his lips against the soft, white perfection of Bucky’s abused throat.

Bucky was trying to put one hand around himself, trying to jerk off. Steve took his hand and wrapped it under his around the half-hard flesh, squeezing and jerking in time with his brutal thrusts.

“Mm–S–Ste–ve–fuck–I’m– _hng_ ,” words broken up by the force of Steve literally bouncing Bucky’s body on his dick. Shaking hard, one hand unable to get purchase on Steve’s shoulder, repeatedly slipping numbly away as he tried to gain even one tiny piece of stability, a desperate whine made it clear that Bucky was close to the end.

Steve slowly released his grip on brown curls, instead pulling Bucky’s head closer, gazing with rapture at his pure desperation, mouth open, tears glistening on his cheeks, eyes the inky black of obsidian. He felt the rippling effect as Bucky’s thighs tightened on his hips and his muscles clenched. He tipped his head to the side, baring his neck, and just as he felt the first pathetic dribble of come release from the head of Bucky’s cock, he pushed his head down.

The sensation of teeth sinking into his neck was not free from pain, but the scalpel-sharp teeth cut through flesh like a hot knife through butter. The moan that vibrated through his skin as Bucky tasted his blood, fastening his mouth tight to his neck, also helped with making the sensation a pleasant one. It was amazing, feeling the way blood flooded from his body and the way it instantly poured energy into Bucky’s. Suddenly the grip on him was vice-like, Bucky’s nails sinking into the flesh of his back, thighs squeezing his waist. The sensation of every muscle in Bucky’s body going tight with the uncontrolled return of his full strength made Steve gasp. Everything felt overwhelmingly restrictive around him, on his dick, on his body, fastened tight to his neck.

“Fuck, Bucky, baby…” he was freezing up, his head was starting to float off his shoulders. Bucky was drawing the blood from the artery in his neck with real strength now, pulling it right out his body. Steve felt the breath leave his body and his limbs start to tingle, as Bucky began to rearrange himself, getting himself to his knees so he could brace against the carpet and Steve’s shoulders and screw himself down, taking over completely, pushing his hands through Steve’s hair and gripping at it as he rode the still-hard cock in him.

After a length of time that’s impossible for him to qualify, he felt Bucky licking instead of sucking at him, his lips moving in slow kisses and kittenish laps. Released from the grip of that irresistible mouth, Steve found himself falling backwards, the sensation of being drunk on fucking and blood loss taking over. He felt his eyes roll up and his hands numb where they rested on Bucky’s hips.

“Mm,” Bucky was smiling, his mouth red with blood, drips of it on his chin. He licked his teeth lewdly as he followed Steve down, leaning over him, rocking his hips, fucking himself ruthlessly. “Love it when you give me what I want,” he hissed, “making me wait, torturing me like that, hurting me,” he licked at Steve’s lips, grazing them with the porcelain points of his fangs, “and then giving me life.” The kiss turned wild, full of tongue and dangerously sharp things. Steve felt his lip tear.

The dizzying sensation of blood loss would only last a couple of minutes, but Bucky hadn’t held back. Everything felt unreal and he only became aware that he was moaning Bucky’s name loudly when his voice cracked and broke on a gasp when strong fingers were pressed to his perineum. Bucky was a magnificent effigy above him, the perfect icon in his personal church. His religion. He was saying that too, mumbling it, fixated on the sublime smile that was directed down at him, shining on him like the sun.

He came hard, finally recovering his grip on sharp hip bones. He hadn’t even realised Bucky was hard again until the sensation of come dripping and splattering gently on his stomach and chest joined the sloppy, glorious feeling of coming had overtaken him.

Bucky huffed, laughed a little dazedly, then laid down right on his chest, tucking himself into the warm, sweaty crook of Steve’s neck. “Wow,” he muttered quietly.

Steve slapped a hand to his back, “Yeah.”

The altar platform was a mess. The carpet would require professional attention, especially as there was almost certainly blood in it. Ropes soaked in spit and come were flung in great loops everywhere and somehow one of the chairs had been knocked over. Steve attempted to sit up and cradle Bucky like he usually would after they fucked, take care of him and get him comfortable, but right after sitting up, he found himself lying back down, vision whited out.

“Oh dear,” he couldn’t see it, but Steve knew there was a lethal smirk on Bucky’s face as he spoke, “I think I drank you almost dry. It’s because you’re just too delicious.”

He felt a feathery kiss on his lips and the white spots began to clear from his eyes. “Damn, I haven’t felt like this since the last time I got shot in the gut.”

Bucky patted his cheek, “Unacceptable, I own this blood. Allowing others to make you bleed is betrayal. Who shot you in the gut, I will go and bite their hands off.” As he spoke, he was unwinding from their pile on the floor, gathering up the rope and collecting it in a pile.

Steve slowly sat up, too. “Blood, body, soul, I’m yours,” he blew a kiss.

Bucky rummaged in the chest before closing it, pack of cigarettes and matches in hand. He padded back over to where Steve was lying flat on the floor. He sat down in the closest armchair and ran the toes of one foot delicately down Steve’s stomach where come was drying mixed with a few, pink drops of blood, “Well, dear heart, you got what you deserved, didn’t you.”

Steve watched him light up one of the same thin, fragrant Swisher cigarillos he had been smoking since 1936. A thick stream of creamy smoke left his lips, cloaking him where he lay. Steve rolled over slowly and caught the dangling foot, kissing it, “I always get what I deserve with you,” he bit the arch gently, “perfection.”

The pink blush that touched undead cheeks was worth a thousand cheesy lines, and Steve pulled the foot harder, sitting up to kiss at the knee next.

“You’re blushing,” he said victoriously, “looks good. I was a bit worried you really starved yourself too much earlier.” The dizziness receded as his supersoldier body repaired itself, and he slowly pulled himself up until he could rest against Bucky’s thigh, bathed in the clouds of white smoke that issued from between newly-pink lips.

“Yeah I think that’s as far as I ever want to go with not eating,” Bucky mused, inspecting his hand, visibly infused with a more human colour, so different from the dead white of earlier. “I might have overstretched myself a little. I did get into quite a large fight yesterday, after all.”

Steve clenched his grip around the ankle he was still holding. “Buck. I _asked_ you–”

“Calm down, doll, it was only a little fight and I won.”

Steve just kissed at the soft skin of one thigh, at the perfect height for his mouth, as aggressively as he could.

Bucky put a hand on his head, “I only lose fights to you, and it feels so good.” He bent down and breathed a smoky kiss into Steve’s hair, stroking down his face, running his fingers over his beard. “You make losing feel like heaven, Steve.”

“You don’t just feel like heaven, Buck, you are heaven,” Steve kept kissing.

“No, I’m your personal hell,” Bucky murmured through a mouthful of smoke. “Happy Hallowe’en.”

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I am begging you to give me treats for my trick.
> 
> Come hang out with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/im_weapon) or [tumblr](https://im-weapon.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [collab: Weaponized](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27370213) by [kocuria-visuals (kocuria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria/pseuds/kocuria-visuals)




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